The Monster Behind The Door

Cheddar’s wake was held hours before, the Youngblood home occupied now only by immediate family. Melissa looked outward from the window above the kitchen sink to the backyard, the bulb of her wine glass gingerly clasped with her fingertips, the stem resting between her ring and middle fingers. Merlot. She sipped as she observed father and son seated close to each other by the pool covered by tarpaulin, their visages obfuscated by the evening sun. That they were this close was a miracle; for the last year, all their son had offer for his blood father was hatred, the center of which wasn’t even his own to have right to from her account. He couldn’t care less.

Youngblood men, always stuck in the damned past.

She didn’t want it to be this way. Truly, had the last few years been so terrible? All the pain, all the trauma, all the terrible decisions and actions...and on the other side, a shared love. Brandon had become a more whole and better man. She had a career and a loving husband in Travis, a life she felt grateful to have. Her son had been showered with love and affection from birth.

Licorice. The fennel was overwhelming. A dish of rigatoni, baked, the ragu complements of Tom Battaglia, sent months earlier and kept in the freezer in a sealed mason jar. A simple family meal. If the pup was there, he’d have been wild with his begging, crying out for every bit of scrambled Italian sausage on offer. She drew the rim of the glass to her lips and her eyes grew wide. Wait. What was she seeing? The clouds moved and in their wake, the oppression of the sun’s glare became muted. Were they...were they holding hands? Her spine eased back, her breath catching. It felt like the entire Earth had shifted, and as it did, all she could offer were the smallest of coos, lilted faintly from her chest. Her eyelids flecked rapidly as the emotion welled in her eyes. “Travis...”

But he did not hear her. He was busy with the final preparations for dinner. The heads of romaine, rinsed. He dried his hands against the lap of his jeans, the handle of the chef’s knife firm in his grasp. His chops were vigorous, the blade rapping loudly against the wood of the cutting board.

“Travis…” she whispered again, the heat from her cheeks spilling to her blouse. Her smile was effervescent. Brandon and Cody, holding hands. The storm was passing. God was good. Life was good.

The healing could begin. And as she looked outward, softly sobbing in joy, the heel of the knife and its knock grew more forceful. More incessant.

Scrambled. Within the cool darkness and the patter of soothing rains, and now, there was no hiding. No malice. Just a desire for understanding of a father by his son. Maybe Brandon’s concussion was why Cody felt less animus in his approach. No. Something more. Something dad didn’t know. After all, this conversation wasn’t why he came here originally. “Why didn’t you guys tell me the truth? You both always said it wasn’t true. That it was garbage.”

Even with his eyes growing used to the twilight, his father’s expression was unreadable. The tone offered from Brandon was an exhaustion. Resignation. Sadness. “You were too young to understand.”

He was right, but that didn't matter anymore, not at this moment. “Am I too young to understand now?” Stark was the absence of frustration, the simple inquisitiveness in Cody’s manner as he fished in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulled out his cellphone. Subtle vibrations sounded as his fingers pressed his pin into his lock screen, then the shuffle through swipes until getting to his Tiktok app. The clip he was looking for took a few moments to find in his saved history despite how practiced the routine had become. He’d lost count of how many times he’d played it over the last year or so. When he found it, his touch brought that horrible night before he was even born back to life. “I want to know what happened.”

The voice. Brandon did not know him, yet it was he. Distortion. The sound, the vision, murky within the remembrance, even despite how pivotal this moment was. The wallow vibrating from the voice behind a shaking door and ceramic tile and the haunting of the light.

2005. El Segundo. It was a simple mission style home, chosen more for utility because of its proximity to Los Angeles International Airport. Not far away from Santa Monica, yet a world away from their olden saccharine trappings. The bloom off the rose, falling past the thorns. Love in death throes, wilted. All those blows to the head, concussions, they had yet to afflict his memory, leaving it mostly keen; it was the alcohol, the muscle relaxers, that dry brushed the moments directly under their influence. Harming them.

Mutilating them.

“–MY FATHER DID, HOW COULD YOU–”

Ichor seemed to seep through the door sill. A scent from the before. It snapped the world into focus, gave it form through the haze. Revisit. Piece together. Retrace.

He wasn’t alone. Melissa. Calves pinned to the tile, knees bruised, a lagoon of blood from her own maw splattered about and stained by her own foot prints. There were no tears, just teeth.

So many broken teeth.

The scent. It bleeds through. Now more than ever.

Why?

“I’m not saying it’s a forever thing,” Brandon lied. 2004. His hair was long then. Dirty blonde. His features had yet to grow deep and rugged from perpetual stress lines of intensity and snarl. “It’s just, now isn’t the right time. And I don’t know when the right time will be, okay?”

Tucked away in bed, this conversation. Melissa’s eyes traced across the ceiling. Had she known the truth… “It doesn’t have to be now, Brandon. It doesn’t. Truly. We’re on the road a lot. I get it. We’re both tired. But there’s got to be more to this than...town to town. I think you’d make a amazing father–”

“And why do you think that?” He cut her off. The house in El Segundo was a fresh purchase, the down payment accrued from one of the bevy of checks Reed Young had deposited during the early times of Action! Wrestling. The man always had more dollars than brains. In truth, was it actually ignorance? After all, Reed was attempting to monopolize the next wave of talent poised to take over the sport at the stage of embryo. The intention wasn’t the issue; it was how much he managed to ruin and fumble the whole damn thing, watching in a cocaine haze as it all fluttered away. Security blankets given to so many. They really should be more thankful. “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

His tone, the accusations, their ferocity in how they lashed outward, they didn’t feel warranted. Turning to her side, she pulled him close, to face him in the soft amber glow of the lamp light. “You telling me that when you’re teasing around with the kids around the shows we’re at, with how you light up despite being so mean and self assured in the ring, that you wouldn’t be good at it?”

“That’s just part of being an athlete. They think wrestling is cool. And it is.”

“Getting them and their parents future tickets? Signed merchandise? Getting them to see others, even though you don’t like them–”

“And they’re not my kid, Melissa. They go home. They’re not my responsibility. They don’t depend on me. And right now, let’s be honest...we’re both young in this. We don’t even know who we are. And we’re going to have someone that needs the best of us? That’s scary. Especially with everything that happened to me growing up…”

“It is scary. But so much in life is. Just...it’s not a now thing. But I can’t accept that it’s a never thing. I need you to know that. If that’s the case, then maybe we really shouldn’t have gotten married–”

How dare she? How dare she? Leverage their relationship, everything they were building together, all for an ultimatum? That wasn’t who he fell in love with. And she knew. Knew everything he had done to him.

A stress fracture formed.

The night where he fell out of love with her.

Layers upon layers, like a varnish composed of liquor and cigarettes and crude oil and full bodied blood sweats. The door was closed at the bottom of the stairs leading to the basement. Forever ago, in the heart of Texas, before a Pariah or a Tower or a Diamond. Brandon, the child. A single light, filtering downward, walls of unfinished wood. And the pounding of the door. He could taste the leather of the belt. Felt the cherries of cigarettes against his thighs. The bracing him down against whatever and…

And…

Benji Youngblood was home. Another hard day in the oil fields. Please, let the door hold this time.

Just this one time.

Please.

“911, state the nature of the emergency.”

Melissa’s words trembling from behind wet lips. “My-my...my address is–”

“OPENDADOOR!” An awful, slurring wail. The rattle of wood, at any movement ready to give way. “OPENDAFUCKIN DOOOOOOOOOR!”

For Brandon, clarity filtered through his mind for the first time in weeks. He drew a deep breath, facing his son in the darkness. He always wanted to tell the truth despite the muddiness making it all the more difficult. So many holes in understanding, and with them, harsh edges incapable of massage. His son had bloodied him, had torn apart his arm. None of those things hurt as much as earning the hatred of his boy. “I don’t know all of what happened. I was self medicating. Lots of alcohol. Lots of somas. Just...stuff that would put me down. Knock me out. If I wasn’t traveling, if I wasn’t wrestling, I just...wanted to sleep. ”

“Ma’am...Ma’am...are you okay?”

“This isn’t downers. That’s rage.” Tension filled Cody’s tone. “Why? What could she have done to deserve this?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why–”

“I don’t know why. And even if I did, there’s nothing, no excuse for doing what I did.” Brandon’s voice quivered. “I was terrified back then. Of what I was feeling. Because I didn’t understand it.”

“Was it because of me–”

“NO!”

“But you just said you didn’t know–”

“He-he-he hit me! He hit me and he’s gonna hit me again! He’s gonna-he’s gonna–”

There was no way to massage the truth. “I didn’t want you, Cody. I didn’t want you. Not because of you. Not because of your mother–”

“You didn’t–”

“--I was scared–”

“--that I’d pull you down and ruin your life–”

“--I was scared I’d do to you everything that happened to me.”

The mixture stings the nostrils. Even after a long absence, its presence was fermented forever, trapped in amber as haunting memory.

I was the only one who remembered the spot of your memorial. I scored all trace of you from the Earth, chopped apart and burned away the mesquite, the cancer, leaving only the spent ashes. Goodbye, and good riddance. I moved on. I plucked you from my mind and went on living. 

I can smell you again, Dad. All over this memory right now despite you being already dead.

Go away.

Why can't you stay dead?

“OPENDADOOR!”

The confession caught Cody between his welling eyes. Learning he was unwanted...”I’m sorry I was ever born, dad–”

No. NO! Brandon grabbed hold of his son and pulled him into his chest as hard as he could, embracing him, smothering him, rocking him back and forth. “Don’t! Don’t you ever say that! Don’t you ever say that or think that!” The phone fell onto the mattress. The Tower crumbled in harsh sobs. “I never wanted a child until I met you. I was so scared because of how bad my father abused me. How he abused my brothers. And he was abused by his father, and his father before him–”

His son tried to speak but was unable through his bawling.

“I didn’t want to do that to anyone. Put anyone else through that. I was just having the panic attacks then. And Cody...had I known that night...had I known you were there...I wouldn’t have done what I did. I’d rather kill myself than have hurt you! I mean it! I love you too much–”

“--dad–”

“And I loved you from the moment I saw you. And I will always love you. I will do everything I can to make your life better. And I am proud of you, son. I’m so proud of you. And I’ll always be proud of you because you’re my boy and–”

“--I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’m–”

“--I’m sorry too. I’m sorry too. But it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. I love you. I love you.”

Brandon couldn’t remember most things from that night, but that thing behind the door, that awful, reeking beast, that...whatever...of what he was, of what he had been, here, in frozen memory, he readied himself with clenched fist, fueled not with hate but uncompromising unyielding love…

He would stop what was to come.

Despite his knowing, he would stop what was to come.

The shards of wood embedded in his knuckles. His forearms. The door wasn’t going to hold. It never was going to hold. The terror he imbued into Melissa...he was sorry. Sorry for everything. Despite it all. Despite how what was happening molded his future and changed his trajectory and made him the man he would become.

No, he had to protect her. To protect the child he didn’t yet know existed. There was no other way.

After all, that’s what a true father would do.

Father and son left the bedroom, and given the commotion within, it was of no shock that Amy was there and at the ready as they poured out. Eyes bloodshot, lids swollen, an arm over the other’s shoulder. The outpouring of emotion.

She couldn’t help but beam. “Are you guys okay? Sounded like a heavy conversation?”

“Were you listening in?” Cody mocked, drawing his free forearm underneath his nose.

“No...I was just able to hear from down the hall. I wanted to make sure everything was–”

“We’re fine.” Brandon interjected with a warm smile. “For the first time in a long time, I think we’re fine. At least...we’re on the way.”

His son gave him a nod and a shake in confirmation.

Brandon eased his son’s arm from his shoulder. “I’m going to go get something to drink. And to eat. You guys want anything?”

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks...Dad.”

A step forward. And after he did, he turned toward them. “Always, son.”

For a moment, they watched as he made his way around the hallway and into the kitchen. The faucet began to run, and once it did, the pair faced each other. Cody started, his tone hushed. “So...what did she have to say?”

Her eyes lingered toward the kitchen, ensuring his father wouldn’t hear them. “She said if that’s what you decide you want to do...to not worry about it. You’ll get to where you want through your own hard work. Nobody will stop you.” She watched as his weathered eyes grew wide. “She also said you’ll have a lot of choices, but to keep Troy Combat Systems in mind for when the time comes...if she doesn’t recruit you first.”

The affirmation given caused him to stand ramrod straight, made his skin break out in raw gooseflesh.

“You can thank me later. Took a lot for me to be willing to bury the hatchet long enough to have that conversation with her.”

After all, that’s why he’d come here in the first place.

So many times, death. Over and over again. The pieces and the parts of the self. There’s reason, Max...no...Wilhelm, as the news posts have claimed...for shifts in name, in moniker. A slogan for a t-shirt. A changed mindset. I used to fancy myself The Pariah. Of professional wrestling? No. Just PRIME. Why? Because PRIME is the only professional wrestling that has ever truly mattered as far as I’ve been concerned. I cut a path on my first foray here, made a wager on myself and my talent and my hatreds. Was going to put down a son of God who I loathed and collect what I wanted so desperately. Wrong move. Ended up dying.

Praise be to Hoyt. 

Familiar story, huh? Save mine being figurative and yours being…’literal’.

I never wanted you in any of this in the first place, you worthless piece of shit. You. Everything about you. The little ways you worm about, getting yourself caught up in everything. More viscous than an oil spill.

Benji Youngblood enjoyed wearing his Exxon embroidered tracksuit top on most occasions.

I hate oil. 

You sow chaos. Everywhere you go. Everywhere you turn. And it’s just allowed. Like you’re some force of nature. Ready to go on the dot every show, whether it’s WON Action News or The Red Manifesto. Like a snowball rolling downhill. Forward momentum, seeping through all.

I didn’t want to take you seriously. You’re a pit dweller. One of the ones that shithole marketed to high heaven. Break your body in garbage matches, then bolt on some cosmetic ‘metal’ parts and sell some action figures, or graphics, or what have you. Be the roving big bad despite the fact that that grimdark piss hovel was occupied chiefly by those merely racing to the ethical bottom. Die and become resurrected. Yet you kept pushing. Kept playing. ‘I AM GOING TO KILL CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON, AND YOU MUST CEDE ALL GROUND ALONG THE WAY SO I CAN MAKE MY WAY THROUGH!’

Fuck you.

Truly, fuck you.

You’ve spent more time taking the circular scenic route around the goddamn county than just going to your destination and doing it. You grab Joe Fontaine’s steel chairs and lay waste to him when, just feet away, is the man you’ve spent the last age frothing at the mouth to eliminate. You make these declarations. You got a plane ticket to North Dakota to film yourself being close to my son at wrestling nationals? You need to get to Farthington...yet...you want to crack wise and smirk and act like you’re going to Shane Reynolds my son? 

Max or Wilhelm or whatever Kael has a fetish for sending ‘messages’. Has a need to drench his arrivals and desires with foreboding and dread, to make his opponents worry about what lingers on the horizon. And I gave in to what he wanted. So did FLAMBERGE. All that time, all those twists and turns, and all it ended up doing was creating a stalemate at UltraViolence.

And now...after all that...we’re ancient history.

I’m ancient history.

No, Wilhelm. You don’t get to jump about like a child to get everyone’s attention and then toss it away when you want to move on to the shiny toy. This isn’t The Pit. You’re not facing a nickname or a moniker.

Death was there to take you. What you’re about to face is something Death has pissed itself scared from whenever it has tried coming around. You want to honor your ‘incredible’ father? At ReVival 58, I’ll do the same for you as I did for the memory of my own…

Thirty minutes.

Prepare to be burnt to cinders.

The stench was overwhelming now. All encompassing. The door warped and buckled, the blows from the fists slamming into it resounding all the way to the mullion. Not much more resistance left to give. He turned to face Melissa, reaching to comfort her. His hand clasped her shoulder. “He’s not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She offered no tears, merely slumped in resignation. Acceptance. Her voice was meek. Barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

And when the door gave way, when the panels splintered, and the eldritch, bestial thing reached inside and unlocked the knob and forced it’s way through–

“HOW! HOWCOULDYOUDODISTOME?!” Violently, It shook, tears pouring from its eyes. So thoroughly and soul wrenchingly wounded. Brandon remembered from this vantage point because he was It, and these steps were his, so oddly crystal, and he readied to stop the killing blow, the strike downward toward her…but It cowered in her presence, hands pressing against the sink, falling to its knees. “YERJUSLIKEHIM! Yer...just like him...”

The current from behind the broken door carried with it a rush of fresh air void of smell. Brandon opened his palm, the vileness weaving upward and filling his nostrils.

The scent hadn’t been coming from behind the door.

It had been coming from behind him.

From her.